


Rite

by illwynd



Category: Norse Mythology, Thor (2011)
Genre: F/M, Group Sex, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-02
Updated: 2011-10-02
Packaged: 2017-10-24 06:00:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/259832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/illwynd/pseuds/illwynd
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Every so often, Loki, god of mischief and lies, appears to a group of beings, and there occurs a certain ritual</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rite

**Author's Note:**

> Written in response to a prompt (http://norsekink.livejournal.com/3231.html?thread=6069663#t6069663) in the norsekink LJ comm.

There is a legend that has made its way around the nine realms like pollen on a desert wind, and it tells this story: Every so often, Loki, god of mischief and lies, appears to a group of beings, and there occurs a certain ritual. (Where the legend is told determines who it is told of: the Aesir speak of the brutality of Jotunheim. The Jotnar tell of the blind worship of the humans. The people of Midgard relate the rich indulgence of Asgard. Perhaps none speak true. Perhaps all do.)

He is known for his beauty; in the firelight, under their glazed and staring eyes, he speaks not a word but strips off his clothes, baring long limbs, flat belly, sinewy shoulders. His dark hair falls into his face as he bows his head and spreads his arms out slightly from his sides. They know why he is there. They do not notice the smile that parts his lips as they fall over one another to reach him. He is a god who feeds on chaos and he offers himself up to the chaos of their lusts.

By the time they have him in their hands, they have shucked away their clothing. There are men and women in the group. The men’s cocks are thickened and jutting. The women walk with hardened ash-dark nipples on their swinging breasts. As one they splay the naked god on his back and gather tight around him. Some hold his arms and legs, though it is not necessary—at least those who clamp one of his ankles between their thighs or suck idly at his fingers will be able to say later that they were part of this gathering, that they witnessed the event. Inevitably, one of the larger men of the group shoulders the others out of the way, placing himself at the front of the line. Perhaps that is because Loki’s green eye flashed at just that one, calling to him in a way he will not later be able to explain. He will kneel between Loki’s legs, wrenching Loki’s hips upward, and he will press himself inside in one long smooth stroke that will make them both cry out. The man’s shout is like a revelation, a prayer, a plea to the distant stars. The cry of the god is naught but pleasure as he is stretched apart and taken. Hands and mouths clamp and pinch and lick and bite on the god’s pale, exposed skin as the man drives into him, jolting him against the cool ground. One after another the process is repeated. Men enter him, and women (and some men as well) climb atop him to feel the god’s hard length within them. Sometimes both these things happen at once, and the tangle of limbs, the drip of sweat, and the smooth flow of desperate curses makes Loki’s eyes flicker darkly. Some are even compelled to press themselves, cocks and cunts and breasts and fingers, against Loki’s lips to feel the pleasure that his deceitful, skillful tongue can give. The darkness is filled with reckless screams and deep groans, with panting breath and high, keening, rhythmic whines. Those who slide within or atop him when the god reaches his climax become dizzy with it, overwhelmed with sensation, and come repeatedly until they lie drained at the outskirts of the group.

This can go on for many hours or last barely long enough: Loki is capricious and cares little for the satisfaction of those who come to him for this rite. Those who take part will later stumble home, exhausted and suffused with the odor of semen and women’s fluids and sweat and some other scent that they can never identify and never forget. The memory of it will always make their mouths go dry and their throats turn thick with unquenchable desire. They are forever marked by the experience. Some spark of wily cleverness and vicious lust shows them up against their duller counterparts, and it burns bright and quick and leads many to bad ends. Some claim it is worth it. Others will make no claim at all when asked, but remain lost in the memory of dark eyes and pale skin and that secret, wicked smile.

And what does Loki get out of this? It may be that when it is done he thrums with the power of such chaos, such desire. It may be that a god of deceit must use creative means of attracting worshipers. It may just be that he returns to his abode sated, deliciously used, ecstatically spent. Perhaps his purposes are not plain even to himself. All that is certain is that he does it for his own reasons, and he does not share them.

And that is the legend as it is told.


End file.
